


Underneath the Magic

by fhartz91



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gothic, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kurt is a tree demon, Light Angst, M/M, Puck is a goblin, Supernatural Elements, mention of past parental death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 03:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: Kurt, a tree demon, runs a magical, supernatural circus that, unfortunately, is in the red. Trying to come up with a way to keep them afloat, his right hand man ... uh, goblin ... convinces Kurt to hire some new acts. Kurt reluctantly agrees, as long as that new act isn't human.Enter Blaine - the human conman who's about to try and change Kurt's mind.





	Underneath the Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunshineoptimismandangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshineoptimismandangels/gifts).



> So, this started life in a number of different ways. I wanted to write some stuff for sunshine, for her birthday, and at the time, I had started writing this as an original piece, inspired by vampireisabitstrong's "Graveyard Book au" which I was also writing at the time. But after a while, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was writing Glee characters. The character of Puck, in particular, was inspired in part by sunshine's character of Felix from her amazing story Heartstone (whom she's reluctant to admit is a goblin, but I know better xD) Also, Kurt is a Spriggan, but I added hints of Kapre as a nod to Darren's Filipino heritage. I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know in the comments. And no, if you're curious, I wasn't smoking anything when I wrote this xD

On the farthest outskirts of town.

Past the dead end streets and the no trespassing signs.

In a place with no light, artificial or otherwise. Where the full moon fails to penetrate.

In the center of a deep, dark forest.

In a clearing where no grass grows, no animals graze, no water flows.

Where the still air settles dry and musty, like the breath of death, and even the spirits of the wicked dare not tread.

The perfect place for a satanic ritual, to cast a spell …

… or perform a sacrifice.

Or hold a circus.

But not just any circus. Here there be no clowns, no acrobats, no elephants, no loud emcee dressed in a sparkly red coat and tall top hat.

 _Spriggan and Company’s Supernatural Circus -_ where the freaks control the show and the straights wind up in cages.

It is a commonly accepted belief in the earthen realm that the modern circus originated in the late 18th century, but Spriggan’s circus (and this particular Spriggan preferred to be called “Kurt”, derived from the Old High German Kuonrat and meaning _wise counsel_ ) has been around for far longer. For those few who know of Kurt and his past, it is rumored that he and his circus have performed for every type of creature that has ever walked the planet Earth – human, vampire, werewolf, cryptid, in every station imaginable from Neanderthal to Czar.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that his circus is easy to come by.

One can find it only if they truly believe, if they possess a heart of darkness (of their own or in a box - either way works as long as it doesn’t leak), or if they can stare into the abyss and fear not what they may see. But if none of that applies to you personally, there are gigantic possessed road signs set up every few miles to help guide you on your journey. They flash in a dazzling array of colors, sing opera, and even dance the polka. They might scream at you if you ignore them for too long before you reach the turnpike, helpfully directing you back to the exit you accidentally missed because every person, demon, beast, warlock, and road sign in those parts knows that if you have gone this way, Kurt’s circus is the only place you intend on ending up.

 _Come one, come all! Don’t delay! Come now!_ the signs cry, luring pedestrians and motorists alike to behold the most spectacular feats of magic and wonderment ever known to man or Gorgon. (The older signs scream obscenities in cryptic forgotten languages, but you have to forgive them. After several centuries, there’s no changing their ways.)

And like all respectable circuses, this one takes place beneath a “Big Top”. The tent they use, however, is actually a _bigger than big_ top, made of thick, heavy canvas woven by the gnarled hands of Stygian witches, with long, vertical stripes running from peak to the hem. The stripes are pink and white if you’re a Virgo, black and purple if you’re a Scorpio, green and gold if you’re a Taurus, and just plain red if you’re an Aries. If you happen to be a Capricorn, it’s something else entirely, like an antique greenhouse with fogged glass panes or an old abandoned inn whose lavish furnishings have faded with age.

Aquarians, however, don’t come here. It’s nothing personal (cough-cough). It just kind of _is_.

But regardless of its dreary and gothic portend, none of it is meant to hurt, frighten, or offend. It is all the work of a master trickster who has spent the long millennia offering unique entertainment open and accessible to beings of all ages, races, genders, sexual orientations, religions, political affiliations, etc. (except for Aquarians - refer back to the above), and promises to be vegan friendly, as well as gluten- and cruelty-free.

Behind the main tent, cloaked to mortal eyes, lies the encampment where the performers live during their time in the human realm, each tent enchanted to match the personality of its inhabitant – moss covered tombs for the vampires, veiled by an eternal darkness; bogs for the swamp monsters, shrouded with twisted, overgrown vines, their tepid waters slick with a layer of putrid algae; a stable for the unicorns, where inside an illusion of the forests of their world stretches, blue shimmering skies and silver lined clouds above, rolling green hills and fragrant wild flowers below, and filled with rabbits, eagles, deer, and all of the other animals they have sworn to protect (which unfortunately escape every so often and run amok, as evidenced by the Australian rabbit pandemic of the past 150 years).

Beyond those tents grows a thicket of trees not native to these woods – stunning mangoes, thorny acacias, dense bamboo, and brooding banyans. Travel through their maze and you might stumble across the ruins of an old plantation house, it’s once proud, whitewashed walls slowly being reclaimed by Mother Earth, devoured by the softly swelling ground beneath it. Follow the branches that break through its foundation, compelled to grow by the power within, and you will find him. Here, apart from the others, dwells the founder of this folly, the creator of this circus, the manager of this mélange.

In short, the guy in charge.

In the midst of this ruin, hidden by scores of overhanging branches, Kurt sits, red eyes glowing in the descending mists of twilight, fingers drumming his knees, deeply troubled as he counts and re-counts his take. A rap on the door doesn’t distract nor disturb him. He knew what was coming. He smelled him on the evening breeze, sensed his arrival in his bones. He felt his footsteps disturb the ground, and the trees surrounding him warned of his approach. In his heart, though he hopes for good news, Kurt already knows this intruder doesn’t bode well.

The door swings open, hinges creaking like the tortured gasps of a hanging man, and the foul thing walks in – long, hooked nose preceding him by about half a foot; hunched over as if pressed down upon by an invisible burden; favoring one leg while the other hits the boards beneath him with a resounding _clunk,_ his slow march tapping out the foreboding cadence of a funeral dirge. His skin glows slightly in this absence of light, lending an eerie cast of unnatural grey to the room. Cracked, thin lips outline a mouth of yellowing, rectangular teeth, gapped in the center while the rest hang askew like dominoes forever falling. The creature smiles. It splits his face almost entirely in two. He’s dressed in the humblest of clothes – a shirt made of burlap that continuously irritates his skin, which sloughs from his shoulders and back in sheets and leaves a ghastly trail behind; and pants fashioned by the very same witches whose arthritic fingers stitched together the tents. His pants in particular are two sizes too loose at the waist, tied around his torso with a piece of rough twine; and three sizes too long at the legs so that the bulk of their length drags behind him, his feet sticking out of two ragged holes where everyday use has worn them through.

“My Lord,” the detestable creature rasps, hobbling toward the tree demon, who towers the approaching goblin even while reclining, “I bring to you the book of holding, ripe for your approval. _Snoooort_!” He sucks in through his nose what sounds like a century’s worth of phlegm, then bows his head in reverence as he offers Kurt the book.

Kurt stares at the ancient, leathery object, held aloft by an even more ancient, leathery creature. He sits up in his chair created by the twining tree roots of two mighty banyans, straightens to an even loftier height, and with a disapproval wrought by hundreds of years of monotony, rolls his flaming red eyes, and says, “Can’t you just call it a ledger, Puck? For crying out loud! You do this every … single … night!”

The goblin huffs and stands upright. He glares indignantly at his friend and Master, but to Kurt, it looks more like he’s pouting. “Where’s your flair for the dramatic, old man? Or your sense of humor?”

“It’s gone on vacation with the petty cash.” Kurt sighs, rubbing his pinched brow with woody fingers. “It’ll return when we clear a profit. So, how did we do?” Kurt extends sharp nails to take the smallish ledger from his goblin companion. “My cash box here’s a little light.”

“Not as good as you had hoped, I’m afraid.”

Kurt flips through the pages carefully to keep from slicing them to bits, mulling over the less-than-impressive numbers. “Hmm. How many performances do we have left in this realm?”

“Only three,” the goblin says regretfully. “Then we move on.”

“Ugh!” Kurt slams the book shut in his hand, squeezing so hard he nearly drives his fingers straight through it. “If we could _only_ sneak five more in before the next full moon!”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. Not with the portal to our next destination opening soon. And it’s a good thing, too. The glamour shielding the meadow is already starting to peel … and it’s gettin’ kinda gross,” Puck remarks, recalling the trail of mushy magic he’d had to sidestep just to get to Kurt’s sanctuary. He’s pretty certain that, despite his best efforts, he still managed to drag the hems of his pants through it. _There’s_ a stain that’s impossible to get out, and it’ll smell like raw eggs and rotting swordfish given enough time. He grimaces just thinking about it.

Kurt grimaces, too. Not at Puck’s mention of “peeling glamour”, but at the avalanche of skin flakes that tumble from the goblin’s body when he shivers. Kurt would never outright tell his friend this, but he’d much prefer stepping in a pool of mushy, decaying magic than another pile of desiccated goblin skin.

But back to the real issue …

They’d discussed this before. There’s no use repeating and rehashing it, and yet, every time they start this discussion, they both hope for a better outcome.

 _The definition of insanity_ , Einstein would say, which is exactly why Kurt doesn’t speak to him anymore, the insufferable old fool.

“I don’t see how, either,” Kurt admits. “I’d like to leave this plane without any red marks in our ledger, but it seems to be nothing _but_ red lately.” Kurt peeks through the pages of the book one last time, looking for something that will prove him wrong, a page full of pluses instead of minuses that he had read incorrectly. When he doesn’t come across one, he raises a hopeful eyebrow at his shifty friend. “No chance you were balancing the books while eating your lunch again, and that’s _blood_ on these pages in place of ink?”

“I wish,” Puck snorts. “But no. I’m using a ballpoint pen nowadays. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Kurt grumbles.

“We have to face facts. The crowds have been thinner lately,” Puck points out as if Kurt didn’t already know – as if the whole company, stressed out over incidentals day after day, hasn’t realized it. “Believe it or don’t, many humans are choosing to go see Cirque du Soleil over our vastly more phenomenal circus. Human acrobats are a bigger draw than supernatural ones, ironically.”

Kurt stands and paces the room. He’d noticed that also, how those human equivalents of tree frogs outperform his circus almost ten to one. Meanwhile, they have a pair of Siamese twins who can switch heads, but meh. That’s old hat compared to a woman who can spin inside a metal ring.

“There’s also the matter of us being stuck in this dreary ass meadow in the middle of nowhere,” Puck continues. “You might consider springing for a few weeks at the convention center - center of town, free advertising, lots of parking and bus access, a handicap ramp …” Kurt nods as Puck counts off the pros on his fingers, giving this option more thought than he had in decades. Kurt can be stubborn, set in his ways. He’s very much an “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” kind of demon. His decision to set up camp in meadows like this one wasn’t simply a matter of personal preference, or even safety for his performers. They could always camp in a remote location and teleport to their performance venue – that wasn’t the issue. It was about _ambiance_ , the air of authenticity that holding their circus out in a spooky forest lent to their shtick. Kurt thought that that was one of the things that set them apart from other circuses. It made them special.

But apparently the definition of special had changed over the past three hundred years.

“Also … uh … you _could_ start letting Aquarians in again,” Puck adds under his breath. “I hear they make up a good portion of the population.”

“You know how I feel about that, Puck,” Kurt grumps. “Inconsiderate little dung beetles, the lot of them.”

“Their money spends just like everyone else’s!”

“No Aquarians! That’s not negotiable!” Kurt declares, dropping a period on the end of the discussion.

“Any _way_ …” Puck sighs. Demons and their egos. There was no way around them. They were the experts at holding a grudge. And once they found one, they latched onto it tight and never let go. Puck knows he’s not going to win. He might as well let that one lie. Besides, he has other suggestions, ones that Kurt might object to more than the inclusion of Aquarians.

“You could always start smoking your magical pipe again. The one that attracts the humans’ attention? You can lure them here that way.”

Kurt curls his lip and pulls a face, one that would be more effective if, at the moment, he weren’t a giant tree. “You know the stigma that surrounds smoking in this century. These mortals are headstrong, more so than their 12th century ancestors, especially when it comes to their health. This mindset of “drugs evil, weed bad” kind of counteracts the effect of the smoke. And not just smoking either. Alcohol, gambling, it’s apparently _all_ a no-no to them. These 21 st century humans,” Kurt huffs, as if the mention of them put a bad taste in his mouth. “All they want to do is sip wheat grass, do yoga, and have heated arguments with strangers about something called _smashing the patriarchy_.” He digs the toe of his trunk-like foot into the dirt, mourning the end of an era. “They don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

Kurt actually used to enjoy coming to Earth a decade or so ago. It was one of the few places where he could indulge in a good, old-fashioned, PG13-rated vice without accidentally declaring war on an indigenous culture.

Not anymore.

“Well, you could at least _try_ it with the pipe for our last three shows, couldn’t you?” Puck suggests, exasperation draining his crooked body. “Or maybe just closing night.”

Kurt shifts from foot to foot, negotiating with himself. He tries his best not to interfere with the humans anymore, not the way the Spriggan used to, which included putting them “under the influence”, causing them to do things against their will. Though, to be fair, refraining from using his pipe goes against _his_ nature, bred from a morality that he’s acquired, not one he’s been taught.

Among Spriggan, Kurt’s the exception, not the rule.

It’s more of a guideline. He doesn’t have to _break_ it. He could just bend it a little, for the holiday crowd, who will more than likely be drinking their heads off anyway. If he lures them to his circus, they’ll all be in one place, bound by protection spells. They won’t be driving while intoxicated. They’ll be safe. Kurt would be doing a public service.

And there he had it! Loopholes! They were amazing things!

“I guess I could do that,” he decides, feeling good about this decision. “I’ll break out the old pipe, smoke some green, and we’ll have a packed house once again.”

“Yeah,” Puck says, a bit uneasy with the direction he was about to take their conversation. Maybe he shouldn’t mention it. He should just let it drop. Kurt finally looked relaxed after the long, hard weeks of constant worry. The problem was that Kurt’s pipe only worked on humans. They were having similar difficulties gathering crowds in other realms they went to, and for a number of reasons. They didn’t just need Band-Aid solutions.

Something else needed to change.

Puck shifts his gaze to the ground, scratches his abnormally large ears with his abnormally longer fingers. “And … maybe … we might consider … um … hiring some new acts?”

Kurt turns on Puck so quickly, the goblin hears the demon’s torso crack, splintered bark breaking from his body and dropping to the earth.

“Puck!” Kurt roars. “We’ve discussed this! There’s nothing _wrong_ with the acts! Bringing new ones on board isn’t the answer!”

“Kurt! We can’t keep slogging along with the old acts if they’re not bringing anybody in! I know you’ve gotten used to our little troupe the way it is. So have I! You know I have trust issues! It took about seven centuries before I could relate to _any_ of them! What does a Pukwudgie have in common with a half-angel, half-dragonfly nomad princess? I’ll tell you what, Kurt! A big fat _nothing_ , that’s what!”

“And yet you still managed to get her pregnant,” Kurt grumbles bitterly recalling the talented, silvery-voiced, platinum-haired enchantress they’d had to send back to her home realm because Puck couldn’t keep his fetid dick in his drooping trousers. Though, on the other hand, Princess Quinn slept with him, so Kurt had to question her life choices.

“But you have to think of the good of the show! You’re working our old acts to death! All of those performers out there that bust their butts every night? You _owe_ them, Kurt! They don’t _have_ to stick it out with us for another millennia. They could transport back to their own dimensions, every last one of them, and _then_ where would we be?”

“I know, I know, you’re right,” Kurt agrees, knocking on his wooden head with wooden fists.

This was another argument they’d been having for longer than Puck could remember. The difference was that on _this_ subject, they strenuously disagreed, to the point of a deadlock, and Kurt didn’t foresee things changing in this instance. Puck argued that they wouldn’t be getting rid of any of their old acts, so there was no reason to be so pigheaded about finding new blood. Kurt countered that their group worked best with the acts already in it. Getting more would be adding unnecessary stress and strain on their already thinly-stretched resources. As far as Kurt was concerned, his circus ran like a well-oiled machine. Adding new acts meant advertising, interviews, auditions, negotiations - things that Kurt couldn’t stand but which would fall on him since he was the owner and all.

On the other hand, it might be nice gong out of his way to meet new beings, for pleasure as well as for work. Bouncing back and forth for centuries has been the death of Kurt’s social life. He’s not looking to settle down or get married. He never wanted to have spawn. He doesn’t even want to date really. He just wants someone nice to go to dinner with every once in a while, tell Dark Age jokes to, share an offering with once in a while.

Not a human. Kurt has been very careful not to become attached to humans. Spriggan as a species can develop a sentimental skin where it comes to humans. If they find one that they consider an equitable match, either as a friend or more, Spriggan will follow that human for the rest of their days.

 _Ha!_ Kurt thinks. _No, thank you._

But as for everything else, was that too much to ask?

He’s spent his entire existence making others happy – humans, deities, sirens, and banshees galore. Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness, too?

“Okay,” Kurt says, a crumb of reluctance clinging stubbornly to his acquiescence. “We’ll find some new blood. _One_ act, but that’s all.”

 _It’d better be one hell of an act,_ he thinks. Kurt hadn’t come across anything in all the infinite realms of the universe that tickled his fancy, nothing that even came close to fitting the bill.

Who was he going to find that would make any sort of a difference in their lives?

“Great!” a cheerful, new voice intervenes. “That’s excellent news! I’d hoped you were hiring.”

Both demon and goblin fall gravely silent.

Kurt looks at Puck.

Puck looks at Kurt.

They turn a full circle, unable to see, at first, the man dressed in head to toe black, standing in the center of their meeting room. But when Kurt sets his red eyes on him, his surprise, which makes his eyes glow like hot coals, pins the man to his spot.

“What the …?” Kurt growls. “Who are you!? _How_ did you get in here!?”

“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that! I had to sneak past your guard at the front door,” the man admits proudly, as if he thinks thwarting their security would win him points.

Of course, considering the fact that their guard is a giant, two-headed, man-eating, spectral spider, it might …

Kurt appraises the man with an unimpressed demeanor. He knows enough about human aesthetic preferences to know that this man – with his tan, unblemished skin; his clean-shaven face; dark hair slicked back; and golden hazel eyes – is handsome by their standards. By demon standards, he would be considered more appetizing than most, and that’s a compliment. And yet, if Kurt had to choose between devouring this human and his usual offering of mangoes and papayas, he’d pick the fruit.

It’s at that moment that Kurt remembers he hasn’t had a decent offering in weeks.

Great. Now his stomach’s growling.

Kurt takes a subconscious breath in and catches a whiff of the man’s cologne – an appetizing blend of cinnamon, cardamom, black pepper, and hibiscus. Those happen to be four of Kurt’s favorite scents in the universe. They remind him of his childhood, of family and friends he knew growing up that have come and gone.

They remind him of his home, a place he hasn’t been to in forever no matter how many times he visits Earth. He can’t. It holds too many memories, and has too much narrow-minded prejudice to make setting up their circus there worth their time.

Damn. Now his stomach’s not only growling, it’s churning like a church fire.

When Kurt snuffs that fire out and shoves the ashes of that nostalgic b.s. aside, he smells power - low levels of it, not nearly enough that it should interest him.

But for some reason, it _does_ interest him.

“Maybe.” Kurt puts his hands on his hips. “And you are …?”

“The name’s Kevin,” the man says, thrusting out an arm, hand open, ready to shake. “Kevin Fitzpatrick at your service, kind sir.”

Kurt looks at the hand presented to him, a blank expression on his face. Kurt doesn’t shake hands. He doesn’t touch other beings if he can help it. He has a thing about germs, especially _human_ ones. It’s not a speciesism issue. It’s a preservation issue. Humans are notorious for their tendency towards self-destruction. Everything that they need to live a long and healthy life, they destroy – their air, their water, their animals, their planet, themselves.

Kurt tilts his head and quirks a brow. “That’s not your real name,” he says, ignoring the man’s hand altogether. For the moment, he’s guessing. It’s part of his mantra. He tries not to invade human minds when he doesn’t have to. They tend to be chaotic, cluttered, unnecessarily confusing, even among the exceptional ones. Humans as a whole don’t know how to think straight. They can’t seem to set their minds on one road and follow it, finish a single task before launching into the next. From all outward appearances – this man’s skin, hair, and eye color, his bushy eyebrows, his stature, average for adult males – he doesn’t seem like he should own such a name. But it’s the way his eyes dart left and right, imperceptible to humans but obvious to a demon, that truly gives him away.

The man’s smile loses some of its strength but none of its luster. He drops his hand to his side, feeling foolish for keeping it extended after several long seconds of Kurt refusing to shake it.

“No, it isn’t,” he admits, sounding like he genuinely wishes it were. “But I thought a traditional Irish name might go over better with you traveling folk.”

Kurt and Puck exchange a pointed look.

“That’s racist,” Kurt says.

“Says the demon. One who looks like a giant tree, I might add.” The man gestures down Kurt’s body with inexplicable confusion.

“Still racist,” Kurt insists.

“By the way, how do you do that?” the man asks. It’s not an offhanded question, which makes it a difficult one for Kurt to comprehend. This man is standing in the middle of a circus made up entirely of supernatural creatures and beings from other worlds. Why should what Kurt looks like be a concern to him?

And yet, it’s significant because it has _always_ been a concern to Kurt. Spriggan traditionally are stocky, big-headed, and short – the ghosts of giants, but really only a shadow. Kurt, on the other hand, is lithe, fair, and tall (by comparison) – traits that set him apart from other Spriggan by a mile.

He’s his father’s son, but in looks, he belongs solely to his mother.

“How do I do what?” Kurt asks.

“Look like a tree. I thought Spriggan were supposed to look similar to men. Or like … woody Big Foot.”

“He compared you to a Sasquatch,” Puck sniggers. “What a noob.”

But Kurt lets the insult go.

He debates how much he wants to tell this human. Why Kurt looks the way he does isn’t exactly a secret, but it would still be sharing something that’s part of him, and to a _human_.

“I’m only _half_ Spriggan,” he confesses, figuring there’s no real harm in letting that tidbit out. The man would probably learn it eventually. There isn’t a single monster in Kurt’s employ that can keep their mouth shut. “I’m High Faye on my mother’s side.”

“You don’t say?”

“A-ha. That’s where I get my magical abilities, my shapeshifting powers … and my _short_ temper.”

The man smiles, pleased with this new information. “Coolness.”

“How do you know what Spriggan look like anyway?”

“I read,” the man says. “I use Google. Which leads me to my next question …”

“If you’re the one applying for a job, how come _you’re_ asking all the questions?”

The man shrugs. “You don’t learn anything by not asking questions. Besides, you don’t _have_ to answer.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why the disguise? I mean, why turn yourself into a tree?”

“Because without it, I’m invisible to the humans,” Kurt says. “And if humans can’t see me, that’s kind of bad for business. Besides, it’s part of the draw. We live in a time where the only way people would believe in a living, breathing tree demon is if they saw something that looked like … well this.” Kurt copies the man’s gesture, sweeping a hand down his body.

The man’s smile dips. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“And there aren’t any other Spriggan in your circus?”

“Nope,” Kurt says. “I’m the only one. To be honest, I haven’t seen one in ages.”

“Must be lonely,” the man decides.

 _It is_ , Kurt thinks. It’s not some huge revelation, just an acknowledgment of fact. But what he says is, “Meh. I’m never really alone, so, not so much.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone.”

That comment silences Kurt. He agrees entirely, even though he’d never thought of it that way. He often felt lonely, even in the center of a crowd. He thought he was weird that way.

He never thought anyone else felt the same.

“Hey! I've seen you!” Puck jumps back into the conversation, pointing at the man with a twisted, accusing finger. “You hang around the crowds. You loiter on our property and swindle for spare change outside our tents!”

“I like to think of it as co-op’ing.”

“And I think of it as dipping in to our profits!” the goblin hisses.

Kurt scowls. He didn’t know this about this man. How come he didn’t know? As a demon who tricks travelers, and who has been known to indulge in a game of poker now and again, Kurt can appreciate a good hustle … but not when it lightens _his_ pockets! And just when he was beginning to _not despise_ this guy.

Thank goodness for Puck. Admiring a human in any small measurement isn’t the kind of complication Kurt needs right now.

The goblin bares his teeth, Kurt grows another foot taller, and suddenly the man feels outnumbered.

“Okay, okay, I see your point,” he says, putting his hands up in defense of his life. He’s not sure how that would help him, exactly, but it’s worth a shot. “B-but, now I'm looking to give back. To help you guys out.”

“Looking to escape, more like it.” Kurt tuts. “Who did you piss off here, human? Hmmm? A local gang? Loan sharks? The police? I know your type. Do you have mafia after you? Because I don’t need that kind of trouble hanging around my circus. I’m not looking to defend anyone.”

“No! I’m not---wait …” The man stops when an absurd thought pops into his brain. “Aren’t Spriggan bodyguards? _Fairy_ bodyguards? I mean, I assume that’s how your dad met your mom, isn’t it?”

“Assume nothing!” Kurt says, appalled at the man’s gall. “You’re not a fairy, and I’m not my father! Plus, that’s beside the point. I like to choose who I call enemy, thank you. I don’t need people I’ve never met mounting a vendetta against me. I don’t want that kind of heat on my tail. The mob has some pretty powerful demons working on their side ... and _lawyers_.”

The man looks at Kurt and Puck, wide-eyed. Something like a smile tickles the corners of his mouth, something he’s trying hard to suppress. He doesn’t end up smiling, but he does chuckle. “So, lawyers are worse than demons?”

“Yes!” Kurt and Puck answer together.

“Everybody knows that!” Puck says, aghast at the human’s ignorance. “How you can live among them and not know of their treachery is beyond me.”

The man continues to laugh, and Kurt shakes his head.

“This back and forth with you is exhausting me, human. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling us. You’re beating around the bush. Speak plainly!”

“But beating around the bush is something I happen to do exceptionally well,” the man says with a wink. Kurt detects the innuendo and rolls his eyes.

“It’s time to find out who you _really_ are … and what you want.” Kurt strikes quickly, reaching for the man and wrapping slender fingers around his throat. Kurt squeezes slowly, till his twig-like appendages settle into the soft, delicate flesh around the man’s windpipe.

“Uh … wh-what … what are you doing?” the man squeaks, keeping his words to a minimum when it becomes harder for him to breath.

“I’m reading your mind, _Kevin_ ,” Kurt says, closing his red eyes.

“D-do you … have to … hold my neck … quite so tightly while you read my mind?” He grabs a hold of Kurt’s arm, but it might as well be made of stone, so rough and so thick, there’s no way to remove it.

“It keeps me calm,” Kurt says, grinding the words out one by one through locked lips. “Be grateful I’m not peeling the skin from you bones.”

“Oh,” the man says. Kurt feels him gulp nervously beneath his palm. “I see. Yes. Thank you for not doing … _that_.”

“Shh. I need to concentrate.” Kurt takes a deep, cleansing breath, and enters the man’s mind. It’s easier than Kurt remembers, but then again, the man’s not resisting. And that’s a good sign. People often resist when they’re trying to pull something over on you. Kurt sifts through the man’s thoughts to find his more recent memories – name, occupation, address, the basics - trying his best to ignore the ones that go out of their way to reach out to him, the sympathetic ones that long to be revisited, like memories of this man as a child, on vacation with his parents, throwing a ball to his brother, learning how to ride a bike with two wheels, learning how to cook with his great-aunt Teresa, playing video games with a friend that he seemed to hold dear, a friend that Kurt sees no more of after the man reaches thirteen. He stumbles across memories of a terrible fire, of their house burning down … of him burying his mother and his father … of his brother running away and never contacting him again … “Uh … y-your name is Blaine, but your parents called you Coqui?” Kurt asks. He releases his grip, his mighty wooden arm - a thick, unyielding branch - trembling as it returns to his side.

“That’s right,” the man says. His eyes leave Kurt’s face and follows his arm for a second before the conversation continues.

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re nicknamed after the sound a frog makes when it wants to have sex?” Kurt crosses his arms, hiding his trembling in the wrap of his limb around his body, and using that remark to will away the image of this man as a teenager, crying on his knees over a freshly covered grave, negotiating with whatever God he believes in for his parents to return.

“Why in the world would that bother me?” Blaine chuckles. “If you knew me better, that would actually explain a lot.”

“Do I _want_ to know you better?” It seems like a ridiculous question seeing how much Kurt already knows about him. Stupid, unpredictable mindreading. He never could get it quite right. Of course, the fact of the matter is that Kurt, being even _half_ High Faye, wasn’t a thing like his mother in anything other than looks.

Which is why his father raised him.

“ _You’re_ the mind reader. You tell me.”

“And you’re the _human_ , so if you want me to let you join our group, you’re going to have to make a more compelling case for me hiring you.”

It shocks Kurt when he hears those words come out of his mouth. He was determined that, no matter what, no human would have a place here. But now here he was, considering this no talent human into inclusion in their troupe, and he had no idea why.

And still, the low level power simmers, humming in Kurt’s ears.

That has to be it. Wherever it’s coming from, _that’s_ the thing that’s causing all of this.

He would ask Puck if he hears it, too, except Puck’s looking at him with the gaping maw of a dying salmon, equally as astonished at what Kurt proposed.

“Certainly,” Blaine says, elated. “Watch carefully.” He puts his hands up, holding them open so Kurt can see that there’s nothing in them. He flips his hands quickly, exposing them front and back. Kurt’s eyes bounce from his right hand to his left. When Kurt sees the right hand again, it’s holding a deck of cards. Blaine fans the cards with one hand. “Pick a card, any card.”

Kurt’s jaw drops.

“What?” Kurt can usually see things before they happen, but he didn’t see that coming. “No! Why?”

“I’m making my case. I’m proving to you that I can be a contributing member of your group. Consider it my audition.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kurt mutters. He takes Blaine’s empty hand and holds it by the wrist, letting the man’s beating pulse speak to him. It was easier reading his mind at arm’s distance from his brain. That, and Kurt wasn’t convinced he could restrain himself from throttling this man. But Kurt can see from the smile on the man’s face that he’s getting the wrong idea. That wrong idea starts to blossom in Kurt’s mind the longer he holds his hand, and it makes him feel warm inside.

 _Oh, please,_ Kurt pleads. _This can’t be happening._

Kurt immediately drops the man’s hand.

“Your father was a sorcerer?”

“Yup.” Blaine puffs up his chest as if he had taught the man everything he knew. “One of the finest.”

“And your mother, too.”

“Yes, sir. She was the more powerful of the two by a long shot.”

“Well, do you have any of their skills?” Kurt tries not to get ahead of himself, but he can’t quell his excitement, finally seeing a silver lining to this obnoxious human’s intrusion into his life.

“Oh, no!” Blaine laughs to Kurt’s dismay. “Good God, no! Not an inch! It’d be amazing if I did though! Think of it!”

Kurt _had_ thought of it, for just a brief, glimmering second. But the more he thinks he knows what’s going on with this man, the more questions he has.

The easiest way to sort them out would be to go back into his mind for an extended stay.

But Kurt doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see the things his mind _wants_ him to see.

“Okay,” Kurt begins again, feeling like pulling the man’s molars out of his skull would be easier than this. He asks his next question slowly, like he’s addressing a child. “What _else_ do you do?”

“Just this.” Blaine folds up his fan of cards and shuffles them dramatically from hand to hand. “Sleight of hand.”

“You do card tricks,” Kurt mutters like a curse at a power higher than he. “Just card tricks,” he repeats, pulling a card from the pile. This couldn’t be it. With the lineage he’s boasting, this can’t be Blaine’s only talent. What did he do that he missed out on the magic lottery? Did he step on a brownie? Run over a druid with his car? Did he make-out with the wrong virgin sacrifice and get cursed?

Card tricks. That and his charm will maybe get him a cup of coffee.

 _Maybe_.

“Hey. Why you hatin’ on card tricks? They put me through college.” His hands don’t stop moving as he speaks, shuffling his deck, the cards flying from his fingertips faster than Kurt can keep track of. That alone is impressive, but still …

Card tricks?

There has to be something Kurt’s missing.

“Here. Let me show you something.” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him around. With a blink of his red eyes, they’re out of the ruins and standing in the center of the big top, watching as performers bustle around, putting away props and striking equipment. They’ve teleported. They could have just walked. It wasn’t that far, not even as the human walks, but Kurt did it on purpose. The jump through time and space, even though no more than a skip compared to what they’ll be doing when they leave the realm of Earth, was supposed to give Blaine a taste of what dimensional travel would feel like. Most humans puke their guts out immediately after.

Blaine barely seems fazed.

 _Damn_.

And to top it off, his hands have found their way up to Kurt’s, resting over his and holding on gently.

Kurt clears his throat. He removes one of his hands.

Only now that he has, he kind of wants to put it back.

Kurt points past Blaine to a man with radiant wings stretching out in both directions, measuring from tip to tip about the length of a Cessna. He stands ramrod straight and over seven feet, dismantling a large, titanium octagonal cage with a wave of his hands. “Do you see him?” Kurt asks. “He’s a descendent of the god Loki.”

“Ooo,” Blaine marvels, watching as he folds the cage into a small box that he puts in his pocket.

“ _Ooo_ is right. He can fracture sunlight and turn its rays into golden snakes. With a single blink of his eyes, he can make you believe that you’re your own mother and compel you to give yourself a spanking.”

Blaine chuckles, picturing himself wearing his mother’s thick, tiger eye framed glasses, her faded yellow housedress, her matching house slippers, and the pink foam curlers she rolled in her hair every night covered by a white hair net, bending himself over a chair and slapping his own bare ass while angrily yelling at himself in his mother’s tongue. It’s an image Kurt glimpses in Blaine’s eyes as the man laughs sadly to himself, and Kurt finds himself wanting to join him. He feels drawn to this man’s easygoing nature. Blaine seems slow to anger, difficult to offend … and impossible to frighten. His sticktoitiveness is admirable, if not misguided. Once he has his mind set on something, he’s not easy to discourage. Kurt will give him that. And Kurt has always found those traits attractive in most beings. A soul that can laugh at itself can weather most storms.

But again – _human_ , and Kurt can’t get attached to a human. Not even one who’s proving to be as … well … what would the word for him be? _Bearable_ as this one. Maybe Kurt could see himself sharing a veggie burger with him while they binge watched Netflix (once they find themselves in a dimension where they can pick up a signal) but that’s as far as he’d take it.

But wasn’t that what Kurt wanted in the first place?

No matter. This is neither the time nor the place for this dilemma. Kurt squares his knotty shoulders and continues.

“And the young lady in that tank?” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him again slightly. Only by, like, seventeen degrees. He won’t admit to himself that it’s an excuse to touch Blaine. No. He’s just trying to be clear with him. Get his point across. “She calls herself Brittany. She’s a river mermaid. I found her sunning herself on the banks of the Mississippi. She’s over three hundred years old.”

“Amazing,” Blaine breathes with the genuine awe of a child seeing a rainbow in the sky for the first time. “She doesn’t look a day over eighteen.”

“She can make rocks and boulders sing,” Kurt explains, trying to come up with anything else she can do that might impress him. “Rumor has it she used to whisper in the ear of Mark Twain as he traveled the river boats so, in essence, _she’s_ the author of most of his more memorable stories.”

“Awesome.”

“Quite.”

Another blink and they return to the ruin of Kurt’s makeshift forest. As soon as the black night surrounds them, Kurt feels cold. There was so much under the big top for Blaine to see.

He teleported them back too soon.

And Blaine, not in the least bit affected by zipping through the fabric of reality, returns to his chipper self.

“Nevertheless,” Blaine says, turning to meet Kurt’s eyes, “can any of them do this?” Blaine tosses his deck in the air and starts juggling individual cards, catching them with his knuckles and then flipping them in the air again until they create a perfect arch. It’s rather intricate, and Kurt questions how a mortal who boasts no particular supernatural powers can accomplish it … but by his circus’s standards, it’s just cute.

“Probably. But here’s what you’re missing – they have power. You have none. And a lot of them aren’t as _patient_ or as _congenial_ as I am. If they get angry with you, or if you get in their way, they will kill you, or _worse_. They may imprison your soul, shrink your head while it’s still on your body, remove your brain and keep it in a jar.”

“Aww,” Blaine coos. “Are you worried about me?”

Kurt scoffs. “Not in the slightest.”

“Well, don’t be,” Blaine says, ignoring the demon’s last remark. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t see how. Tell me, human, what have you been doing with all of your 35 years on earth?”

“This!” Blaine holds up his deck and gives it a shake. “I’m an entertainer! A jester! A magician!” Kurt stares, waiting for the shoe to drop. He knows it’s coming. This man’s whole presentation has been nothing but dropping shoes.

And yet, it’s probably the most fun that Kurt’s known in years.

“But I work the register at a dry cleaners to pay the bills.”

“And there it is,” Kurt says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “I’m surprised that I’m even surprised. So you have no circus or performance experience of any kind?”

“Yes, I have! I was an ale wench for six months at Medieval Times.”

“An ale … _wench_?” Puck chortles, wheezing when he pictures Blaine in a corset and a dress. Though, oddly enough, he has to admit, it’s not a bad look for him.

“Oh, and in high school, I was in _The Wizard of Oz_.”

“As what? A Flying Monkey?”

“No.” Blaine smirks. Then he snickers. “As one of the angry trees.”

Kurt feels his cheeks flush red but not out of anger, and that’s the part that makes him the most livid. “You’re ridiculous! Do you know that?”

“Well, you must like ridiculous.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“It’s been over an hour, and you’re still talking to me.”

“You’d never survive traveling with us,” Kurt says, stomping his feet and raising his voice, furious because, for a second, _half_ a second, _less than_ half so he won’t have to loathe himself for thinking of it, he began to ask himself - could it be that this time around, Kurt _doesn’t_ follow his human love interest for the rest of his days on Earth?

Maybe he takes the love interest with him?

He hears the low hum of power again, tickling in his brain; he sees the barrage of memories that aren’t his; feels the warmth throughout his body that gathers in his stomach, trying to tell him something that he refuses, under pain of dismemberment or death, to supply any credence to.

There is absolutely no way, here or in hell, that he wants to have any attachment to this human! The man’s a hack! A con! A dime-a-dozen trickster out to make a quick buck at Kurt’s expense, and that’s all.

And Kurt’s first priority has to be to make him leave. He’s done entertaining these thoughts any longer. He was right to begin with. They don’t need to add new blood to the mix. New people only cause trouble. This proves it! They’ll figure something out. They’ll find another way. It’s a good plan. A sound plan.

So why does it make him feel emptier inside?

“We cross dimensional portals,” Kurt says in a stern voice. “Humans are soft. If it doesn’t make your blood boil, and if you don’t get torn limb from limb, it’ll turn your stomach inside out.”

Kurt stares at Blaine with an intensity that will turn the man into a candle if Kurt’s not careful. But somewhere in the man’s golden eyes, Kurt sees something click. He’s getting it. He’s finally getting it. He understands. This isn’t the place for him. He doesn’t belong there with him. With _them_.

With _him_.

Blaine lifts one shoulder. “That’s okay. I don’t get travel sick.”

Kurt slaps himself in the forehead with his palm.

“He has power,” Puck hisses in a whisper, having warmed to the idea of Blaine’s joining them over the course of the conversation.

Anyone who can get on Kurt’s nerves this badly might be worth keeping around.

“I can smell it. And I know _you_ can smell it, Kurt. He has it in his background. Even if he can’t use it, it’s most likely in his blood. It might be enough to protect him.”

“What are you doing!? I don’t need you taking his side!”

“I’ll bring Dramamine,” Blaine adds. “Just in case. It’ll be good.”

Kurt laughs in vexation, knowing he’s losing this battle. Fine! Whatever! So what if the human comes with? It’s no skin off Kurt’s nose. He’ll just leave the dirty work to Puck, have him clean up the man’s guts when he implodes! Or mop him up when Loki’s great-great-great-great-grandnephew turns him into an oil slick. Or chase him down with a glass jar when Brittany transforms him into notes of music!

 _Or_ , Kurt could fit him with a protection spell. Something mild that might boost his power. Kurt hates to admit it, but this _is_ workable.

The only problem is what it might do to him personally if the human stays.

“We pay minimum wage,” Kurt says, his methods of dissuading Blaine getting weaker and weaker.

“I’m fine with that. I was planning on cashing in my 401K anyway.”

“Wait, wait, wait … you work at a dry cleaners as a _cashier_ and you have a 401K?” Puck gasps. “How in the world did you manage that?”

“I was a business minor in college.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yup. I set up a portfolio using eTrade online, diversified early, made a good call on some high risk investments …”

“Guys! We’re getting a little off topic, don’t you think?”

Blaine turns to Kurt. He stares deep into the demon’s eyes, as if he’s about to relate something profound, and says, “Ace of spades.”

Kurt jerks back. “ _What_?”

“Your card.” Blaine points to the card skewered to the palm of Kurt’s hand. “It’s the ace of spades, am I right?”

Kurt looks at the card he’d forgotten he’d been holding, the one he’s been strangling this whole time. “How did you know that?”

“Your eyes give you away,” Blaine says with another of his infuriating winks. Kurt doesn’t like Blaine’s winks. They’re sly and disarming … and they make his stomach wriggle like a mass of earthworms struggling to rise through a thick puddle of mud. But Kurt finds himself grinning over the comment about his eyes until he remembers one thing.

His red eyes are reflective.

Which means Blaine’s just a con-man. A charming, handsome con-man.

But he’s a good one, there’s no denying that. He’s pretty much conned his way into Kurt’s circus, whether Kurt likes it or not. He’s conned Puck into taking his side, though that’s probably not as difficult a feat as Kurt is giving him credit for.

Conning his way into Kurt’s life - _that_ Kurt doesn’t like. But Kurt will find a way around that. If Kurt could tame him up a little, Blaine might be of use to them.

If anything, he might be more qualified to balance their books than Puck, the neutered Pukwudgie.

“Look.” Blaine closes his eyes and exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as if he knows he’s running out of options. And on his face, Kurt catches a look that he’s seen on other humans a thousand times.

He’s even seen it on himself.

_I just don’t want to be here. I just don’t want to be alone anymore._

That speaks to Kurt. Here it was, the truth behind the con.

_I can’t stay here. There are too many memories here. I’m trying to live, I’m doing the best I can, but there’s nothing for me here anymore. If I have to stay here another week, another month, I won’t be able to take it. I’ll do something rash. Please. You have to take me with you. You have to let me in. I’m so lonely, and I just want a little bit of happiness. It’s been over twenty years. Don’t I deserve that?_

Kurt nods at Blaine’s sentiment, the one in Blaine’s head, but that’s not what Blaine says.

What he says is this:

“You guys used to do well here on Earth because witches and warlocks and mermaids and unicorns and …” Blaine looks between Kurt and Puck. He makes a quick decision and points to Puck “… _him_ … were the stuff of fantasies and legends. But now they’re the stuff of movies. Summer blockbusters by the dozens, coming out year after year like clockwork. With modern technology, computers and CGI, humans can _create_ fantasy. Anything they want, even in their own homes. Kids more than half my age are becoming Internet famous with sci-fi movies they film in their basements and upload on YouTube. And that’s bad for you guys. _Really_ bad for you. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. But where you guys are headed, won’t I be the thing of fantasy? The oddity? Won’t I be what draws a crowd, even if all I do are card tricks?” Kurt’s eyes are immediately drawn to the man’s hands, but miraculously, his ever-present deck of cards seems to have disappeared. In fact, dressed in a pocket-less black button down over a black tank top, skin tight jeans, and boat shoes on his feet with no socks, Kurt has no idea where that deck of cards even came from to begin with. The man shouldn’t even be able to wear _underwear_ in those jeans. Where the hell is he hiding a deck of cards? “Maybe you guys can’t break even here, but why not get a head start wherever it is you’re going, and come back here with a better game plan?”

“And I assume that _you_ are going to want to help us with that game plan?”

“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, I know what the people here want. I have the inside scoop.”

“I also assume you’ll be expecting a cut,” Puck grouses.

“Not a cut,” Blaine says, that exhausted look evaporating with the arrival of a single, effervescent smile. “An opportunity.”

Kurt’s eyelids narrow. “ _What_ opportunity?”

Blaine turns his attention Kurt’s way, and Kurt notices the way Blaine’s eyes light up when he looks at him, the way his face seems to shine when he aims his smile at him.

“Well, now, that remains to be seen.”

Kurt sighs. He doesn’t know what to make of that comment, how to feel about it, but he moves on nonetheless. “Listen,” he says, already regretting what he’s about to say. But Blaine has a point. In other dimensions, he _would_ be the oddity. That might be worth something. “I don’t know that you’ll fit in here, but you can come with. I’ll give you a trial run, so you can figure out if this is _really_ the future you want. And if it’s not, we’ll drop you back off the next time we’re nearby.”

“You have the power to see the future, don’t you?” Blaine says.

“Sometimes,” Kurt replies, though seeing as he hasn’t been able to predict anything that’s happened so far, he might have to scratch that one off of his list of abilities.

“Well, what do you see in mine?”

“Me changing my mind if you don’t get your ass out of here.”

Blaine smiles his megawatt smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever puppy. “You mean it?”

Kurt’s head tells him to say no. Regardless of if this is a workable idea, it’s still not an advisable one. Bringing a human through time and space may have consequences. But it’s not Blaine’s brilliant con that made Kurt’s mind up for him. It’s not even the warmth that’s been bubbling in Kurt’s heart since Blaine arrived.

It’s that one sentence Blaine uttered without saying a word.

_I just want a little bit of happiness._

Kurt has dedicated his life to bringing happiness to others. That’s what his circus has been about. He didn’t create it for wealth or fame. He’s been sidetracked a little bit lately trying to keep their heads afloat, but not out of greed. Out of responsibility. But if he overlooks this man and his gifts simply because he’s human, Kurt will be a hypocrite to the ninth degree.

Besides, maybe helping this man find his happiness will help every one of them in the long run.

Even Kurt.

He’ll have to set the wheels in motion and see how this plays out.

“Yeah, I mean it.” Kurt shrinks a few feet to meet the man’s height. “Go home and pack up your things. Get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes. In a couple of days, we’ll be leaving this dimension, and I don’t know for sure when we’ll be back. Does that sound okay with you? Does it sound like something you can do?”

Kurt holds his breath while he waits for Blaine to answer, not because he’s afraid that Blaine will say yes, but because he’s suddenly afraid that Blaine might say no.

“Yes!” Blaine claps his hands. “Yes! I can! That’s no problem! Absolutely no problem, I …” Blaine rambles as he backs out of the room, planning out loud “I’ll pack up my things, I’ll say my goodbyes, I’ll cash in my accounts, I’ll … thank you!” He rushes over to Puck. He takes the goblin’s sticky hand and pumps it hard. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Don’t thank me, young man,” Puck says, extricating his hand from Blaine’s grasp as if he were shedding himself of a slimier than normal banana slug. “Thank the demon. He’s the one who’ll be vouching for you from now on, so I suggest you don’t mess up.”

“Of course not! Of course I won’t!” Blaine launches himself at Kurt. Kurt reaches for his hand, but Blaine throws his arms around his waist instead, hugging him with all his might. “Thank you,” Blaine says, softer than a whisper. “You won’t regret this.”

“Make sure that I don’t.” Kurt can’t bring himself to hug the man. Not just yet. Not with those painful memories laying siege to Blaine’s mind. So Kurt pats him on the back instead. “Remember that if you piss me off in any way, peeling the skin from your bones is still an option.”

“I’ll remember.” Blaine detaches himself quickly and, with a wave at Kurt and Puck, races from the ruin, presumably heading home to collect his things and bid a fond adieu to his life.

He’ll be back. Kurt knows.

He doesn’t need to be psychic to see it.

“You like him,” Puck sneers, following Kurt’s eyes as the demon watches the human go.

Kurt clicks his tongue with disgust. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t be ri---” He’s about to say ridiculous, but he remembers what Blaine said about liking ridiculous. He won’t prove him right. He refuses to use that word “… stupid.”

“A-ha,” Puck says, insulted. He takes one look at Kurt and his eyes grow wide, becoming the size of saucers, outdoing his nose for the most outlandish feature on his face. “Kurt! You---you’re budding!”

Kurt’s face scrunches. “What?”

“Look for yourself! You’re actually growing _leaves_! And flowers! Gah!” The goblin exclaims in disgust. “Is that … an _apple_?”

Kurt twists his torso in an attempt to get a better look. He spots his reflection in the filth-covered windows a short distance away and sneers. “It happens,” he says, trying to bat it off his body with his fingers. “It’s almost spring.”

“Don’t give me that!” Puck groans, swiping away Kurt’s excuses with his hand. “You’re wearing a disguise! One that you control! That apple is all you, buddy!”

“Well, what was that with you talking shop with him? About his portfolio?” Kurt counters. “You were practically _drooling_! It was pathetic!”

“Don’t talk pathetic with me. I’m not the one sprouting fruit. And I’m not fanboying! I’m trying to keep us in the black, Kurt! Remember? I’m not too proud to admit that that young man might know a little more than me in that regard.”

“Stop trying to be hip, Puck. It doesn’t suit you,” Kurt sniffs. “Having a blog on Tumblr doesn’t make you relevant.” Kurt plants his hands on his hips and goes back to pacing, trying to come to grips with these changes, what he did - inviting a human to travel with them, making him part of the troupe.

Possibly flirting with him, and how that made him feel.

How it felt to give in to his nature after so long.

He taps his fingers on his hip as he marks off the many, _many_ mistakes he made in the past two hours. When his finger hits something – or more to the point, the _absence_ of something - he can’t help the grin blossoming on his face among a small patch of moss and a cluster of bluebells. And if a small robin’s nest sprouts somewhere in the vicinity of the new growth behind his left ear, complete with momma bird and a clutch of pale blue eggs, well, he won’t be the one to point it out.

He doesn’t have to. Puck sees it and shakes his head. “So, tell me this, Kurt - if you don’t like him, then why are you blooming? What’s with the smiling? I haven’t seen you this giddy since The Great Emu War.”

Kurt chuckles before he answers, patting down his body once to be doubly sure. He’s been using magic to change his appearance, giving himself a façade that aligns with what the humans believe a “tree demon” should look like. It covers up his vaguely human form, including the clothes he wears (which is a shame because he happens to have amazing fashion sense). It had to have been when Blaine hugged him. Kurt had been caught off his guard. It had happened so quickly, he didn’t even notice.

The sly bastard.

Blaine must have been looking for Kurt’s stone. Of course, he was. Blaine, with even a Google knowledge of Spriggan would know that Kurt might have one. Many a Spriggan does - a beautiful, snow white keepsake - and the Spriggan who loses his is required to grant wishes to the person who finds it. Blaine must have felt it. It’s difficult to miss once you put your hand on it.

Kurt can imagine what Blaine would have wished for if he’d taken it.

But for some reason, he didn’t. The most precious of Kurt’s possessions, and Blaine left it behind.

There is obviously more to this man than meets the eyes.

But that doesn’t mean he left empty handed.

In that same pocket was something else, which has now gone missing, and Kurt smirks thinking about it.

“He stole my wallet.”


End file.
